


CVS at 3 a.m.

by sxldato



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting, bucky is sad trash, i knew i was missing something, it's not really a shippy fic?? but i figured i'd put the ship up there anyways, it's sort of cute at the end but it's mainly just gross, really though this is just gross, steve is the team mom, that's it that's the tag, that's literally it i don't know what other tags to put here, this fic is really just self-indulgent garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because he's allowed to make his own choices now does not mean they are always smart ones.<br/>Because most of the time they're not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s 2014, he keeps telling himself. It’s 2014 and he’s safe and HYDRA can’t get him. It’s 2014 but sometimes he feels like it’s not, and sometimes he feels like a part of him was left behind when he fell. It’s 2014 but his left arm, along with his pride and who he used to be, has been left in 1943, buried in a snowy ravine along a European countryside.

It’s 2014 and he’s at a CVS at 3 in the morning.

The light in the store would be hard to adjust to if the city outside weren’t bustling with movement and noise. That’s one thing that hadn’t changed, he thought. New York was still New York, was still the city that never slept. He found comfort in that. He found comfort in consistencies.

He hadn’t woken Steve to tell him he was going out. He didn’t think it was that big of a deal. He’d assumed it was the last bit of HYDRA’s drugs passing through his system. He felt weak, clammy, and he must have been running a fever to feel so cold on such a warm summer night. His stomach didn’t feel right, either; there was an unusual pressure on it that had him coiling his arms around his torso to alleviate the pain.

He doubted anyone would pay attention to him, even as disheveled as he must have appeared. He was in flannel pajama pants, a sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers. There wasn’t much intimidation to that, especially since he was careful to keep his metal arm covered.

He wasn’t sure what kind of medication he should get for feeling the way he did, so he wandered about the aisles, stopping every now and then to read the backs of certain boxes or bottles. Despite being ill, he liked doing this, going out by himself and doing things _for_ himself. Even small things like this gave him a sense of freedom that he hadn’t experienced for over seventy years. Being an individual, being seen as a person who could make their own choices— it was new and different and  _good._

What wasn’t good was the sensation in his stomach getting stronger as time passed. It was getting harder and harder to stand up straight, and eventually he stopped walking altogether, bracing himself against one of the shelves to keep himself upright. His breathing was heavy and labored, and for a brief moment he wondered if he was having a panic attack, but he knew that was wrong. There was no fear here, just pain.

He needed to get out of there before anything bad happened.

He managed to stumble out of the store and down a few blocks before nausea swelled in his chest and he lurched forward, gagging, but nothing came up. He took a shaky breath and sat down against the brick wall, trying to settle his raging insides.

But then his mouth flooded with saliva and all he could think was _oh fuck_ before he was doubling over on himself and vomiting. There wasn’t much in his stomach, so most of what was coming up was just bile. It dripped down his chin and got on his clothes and after he was done he was left choking on air, dry-heaving until his throat was raw.

He let his head fall back against the brick with a dull thud, wiping his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt and waiting until he stopped trembling. No one asked him if he was alright or if he needed help, and he was actually quite grateful for that. He was sick and scared, and having strangers talking to him would just make it worse.

Getting to his feet was difficult, but after a few minutes, he was heading back to the Avengers’ Tower as fast as he could— which wasn’t very fast at all. He considered the idea of calling Sam or Natasha, but he didn’t want to wake them, either. He’d let them sleep. He could handle himself.

The plan had been to go back to his room, take a shower and go to sleep. In the morning he’d ask Steve what to do, and everything would be fine after that. Except that plan was quickly scrapped, because his stomach did a gut-wrenching flip and suddenly he found himself retching into the kitchen sink. He prayed that no one would wake up, that no one would hear him, but that was also quickly scrapped because he could feel Steve’s hand on his spine, rubbing his back in big sweeping arcs.

His knees buckled and he slid to the floor, his body being wracked with violent chills again, and Steve knelt down in front of him. “You could have woken me, Bucky.”

Even when he was feeling like he was being run over by a truck, Bucky was able to pull together a shit-eating grin. “I felt like sightseeing. The CVS down the street is _wild_ at this hour, let me tell you.”

"Some day you’re gonna get punched in the face, and I’m not gonna do a thing to stop it." Steve was unzipping and peeling the soiled sweatshirt off of Bucky’s chest. "How’d you even do this to yourself?"

"If you hadn’t noticed, I’m rather talented at fucking things up as much as humanly possible—or inhumanly possible, I guess."

Steve looked at him with some form of concern and heartache, and Bucky waved it off. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m kidding.” His stomach gurgled and he winced, kneading at his abdomen with his flesh-and-blood hand. "I’m not kidding about this, though… It fucking hurts…"

"Let me get you some medicine, okay? Let me help you up."

"I’m not letting you carry me.” But he _did_ allow himself to lean on Steve as they walked to the bathroom.

Bucky sat on the toilet seat, stripped of his sneakers and pajama pants and left in his underwear as Steve rummaged through the medicine cabinet. His gut still churned troublingly, and he figured the best course of action would be to sit next to the toilet instead of on top of it, because he’d already humiliated himself enough times in one night and didn’t feel like doing it again.

"I’m sorry," he mumbled, breaking the deafening silence. "I just wanted to do something for myself."

Steve set down the bottle of medication he’d been holding and turned to face Bucky, worry obvious in his features, but no traces of pity. “I know,” he said gently. “It’s okay, I understand.” He reached for the bottle and twisted it open, pouring some of the liquid into the cap. “Take some of this; it should help.”

Without even asking what it was, Bucky drank it all at once and grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”

"It’s supposed to taste like bubble gum."

"Well, that’s a bullshit marketing ploy.” Bucky leaned against the rim of the bathtub, feeling a little proud that he could enjoy the way it felt on his fevered skin without being reminded of the ice that enveloped him for decades.

“Do you want a blanket or anything?”

Bucky shook his head. “Just… Will you stay here with me?"

Steve smiled and moved to sit beside him before pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Of course.”

Bucky rested his head against Steve’s shoulder and, after convincing himself that he would wake up in the same place in the same year, let himself slip into a much-needed sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky pukes on Steve.   
> That's it.   
> That's the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no relation to the previous chapter. this is just another gross thing and i didn't want to add a whole new work to my inventory just for a little over 1k words of plotless indulgent crap.   
> and this is, dare i say it, even more disgusting than the previous chapter

"Stevie…"

"Hm?" Steve looked up from his sketchbook, eyebrows knitting together as his gaze focused on the pallor in Bucky’s face. "What’s wrong?"

“‘M not…” Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut and he swallowed convulsively. “‘M not feelin’ so hot…” As if on cue, his stomach emitted a low gurgle, which Bucky responded to by coiling his arms around his middle.

"Are you gonna throw up?" Steve asked, already on his feet and hurrying over to where Bucky was curled up on the couch.

Bucky shrugged weakly. It didn’t matter much, anyways. Judging by the way Bucky was gritting his jaw and the lack of color in his complexion, Steve kind of knew the answer already.

"Here, I’ll help you to the bathroom, okay?" Steve hauled Bucky up by the arms and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, fingers digging into the grooves of the metal that spread over Bucky’s collarbone.

In the middle of the hallway, however, Bucky stopped dead in his tracks, doubled over, and retched. Nothing came up, but he was left shaking and covered in a light sheen of sweat. Fear and confusion flickered in his eyes. “Is this a malfunction?” He mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Jesus, Buck, no." Steve hated when Bucky talked about himself like he was a machine. He wished the day when that stopped would come soon. "You’re sick, it’s okay. This is what happens." He turned so he was facing Bucky instead of to the side of him, bracing him by the shoulders so Bucky wouldn’t collapse. He didn’t trust Bucky to hold himself up, or to not go into a full state of panic. "Just try and relax."

Bucky’s breathing was coming out labored and erratic, and it cut off abruptly as he lurched forward on a dry-heave again. “Steve, I’m scared,” he managed feebly, clutching at the fabric of Steve’s shirt to hold himself up.

"It’s alright," Steve promised, reaching to brush the hair out of Bucky’s face and tuck it behind his ears. "You’ll feel better soon."

Bucky’s grip on him tightened, the metal plates in his left hand groaning as they strained to recalibrate. He gagged painfully, a trickle of bile pooling around his lips and dripping onto the hardwood floor.

"You’re okay, I’ve got you," Steve murmured, his own gut twisting a bit in sympathy. "Can you breathe for me? In through your nose and out through your mouth."

"I’m a little busy at the moment," Bucky ground out, though his words tapered off into another gag. His stomach did a somersault, and suddenly the contents of it were being pushed up. Now he was remembering what this was, and how much he hated it. He choked and coughed, trying his damnedest to force it back down, and for a moment he thought he actually had. 

Then the signal in his body that was keeping everything inside him _inside him_ switched off, and it all started spilling out. It was thick and hot and it burned his throat on its way out. His eyes were screwed shut; he didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see what was coming out of him, but he could hear it splattering onto the floor. Some part of his brain— the part that wasn’t focused on putting his digestive system in reverse— was aware of Steve helping to hold him upright, and that same part of him was thankful. He didn’t want to fall into… whatever this was.

It stopped at one point, and he took the brief time to try and catch his breath, collect himself, but it was only a few seconds before another wave of vertigo was crashing onto him. He vomited again, this time even more painful than the last, his stomach seemingly trying to rid itself of every last bit of what it had in it. Each time he hiccupped or burped, more of the wretched substance came out. Tears budded in the corners of his eyes and his cheeks, previously white as paper, were now flushed red from the sheer effort.

When it finally appeared to be slowing down, he sucked in a couple deep breaths and let his eyes open. Upon doing so, humiliation slammed hard into his chest. “Oh, cripes, Steve, I—” He stumbled back a bit, pulling himself out of Steve’s grip. Most of whatever he’d been coughing up had collected into a puddle on the floor, but some of it had found its way onto Steve’s shirt. “I d-didn’t mean to—”

Steve looked down at himself, as if just noticing this, and then back at Bucky. “No, no no, you don’t have to apologize! It’s not your fault.”

Bucky was shivering violently now, everything but his metal arm overcome with tremors. Too many things were happening at once, and his lower lip quivered as the tears that had formed in his eyes fell. “F-fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know this would happen, I—”

"I’m not upset," Steve insisted, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders, balling it up and dropping it to the floor. "Really, Bucky, I’m fine. Please, just breathe."

Bucky inhaled shakily but found himself lurching forward and gagging again. He clapped a hand over his mouth—he didn’t want to do it again, he wouldn’t let himself-- and bile seeped past his fingers, dripping onto his hand and stringing down his arm. His legs gave out under him and he sank to his knees, placing his hands on the floor as he choked up the rest of his stomach’s contents.

“You’re okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” Steve’s hand was on his forehead, the other pushing away stray strands of his hair, and Bucky leaned into the touch with a slight whimper. He swallowed and hiccupped, then coughed out the last remnants of acid that were burning their way up his throat.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, I’m here, it’s okay.”

The repetition helped calm him; it was something he could focus on—a sort of rhythm to follow when his pulse was going wild. He tried his best to block everything else out, to focus on Steve’s words, the thrum of his own heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest. He was clammy all over, and he felt absolutely terrible, but he slowly came down from his state of panic and confusion.

“That,” he said, his words slurred and tired, “was disgusting.”

"It happens to everyone. Don’t sweat it," Steve assured him. "C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up."

Bucky nodded and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet and guided the rest of the way to the bathroom.

After Steve cleaned up his metal arm, Bucky positioned himself in front of the toilet with his head resting on the rim of the bowl, in case there were somehow more things his body decided it needed to rid itself of. Steve was running a bath, letting the warm water fill the tub, and the sound of it was calming enough that it may have lulled him to sleep, if not for the circumstances. Nausea swirled through him, a dull, constant ache in his stomach, but for the moment he was busy reliving a memory.

"Coney Island," he mumbled, looking up at Steve when he turned around. "We went to Coney Island."

Steve smiled. “Yeah, we did.”

"We went on the Cyclone, and afterwards you puked all over the sidewalk."

Steve scoffed. “You _made_ me go on it with you.”

"You coulda said no," Bucky protested.

"You were too scared to do it by yourself."

“I was not!”

Steve laughed. “An argument for some other time.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “You wanna hop in the bath? I think the water’s pretty warm now.”

"Yeah." He got to his feet unsteadily, much more preferring his position next to the toilet, and began to pull off his t-shirt. Steve started towards the door, but Bucky quickly grabbed him by the wrist to stop him. "Stevie, wait."

"Hm?"

"… Can you stay with me?"

"… Yeah. Yeah, of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my grossness increases on what i believe is called an exponential curve

**Author's Note:**

> "hero do you always write about puke"  
> yes. yes i do. because i am disgusting  
> jump into the dumpster with me it's gonna be a party


End file.
